Cutting the red cabbage

An original literary non-fiction-style account of helping prepare vegetables in a busy community kitchen.

The cabbage sat on the board like a tightly folded argument. Its outer leaves were dark and polished, but the cut through its middle exposed a pale maze of veins. I had bought it because the colour looked cheerful in the basket. Under the kitchen lights, it seemed to have brought an entire private weather system into the room.

Nadia cut it into quarters. The knife did not glide. It met resistance, stopped, then pressed through with a short crack. Each quarter opened into more folds. She asked me for a bowl, and I handed her one too small. Already the board was disappearing beneath purple ribbons, white ribs and pieces shaped like little bent sails.

At the next table, onions were being counted, peeled and passed along. Someone called for another tray. A radio voice rose above the extractor fan, lost its place and returned between two bursts of laughter. Nadia kept cutting. The heap grew loose and untidy, but her movements remained compact: turn, hold, cut, clear. My first image of an argument now seemed wrong. There was no dispute between the hands and the work.

By the time the last wedge was sliced, the bowl was streaked with colour. The board bore a purple crescent where the cabbage had rested. I carried the full bowl to the other table, holding it carefully away from my clean apron. Nadia called me back for the stray pieces. The cheerful object I had admired in the basket had become lunch for people I had not yet met. I scraped the board into a second bowl and took that too.

How does the writer use language to present the cabbage and its transformation during the kitchen work?